


the only love i've ever known (the only soul i've ever saved)

by knownslowly



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:25:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knownslowly/pseuds/knownslowly
Summary: The tacky remains of drying tears on Hurley’s cheeks catch the light as she tugs Sloane’s body down so she can press their foreheads together. She inhales. Exhales. Shudders.“You’re a good person,” she says finally, her voice raspy and her breath hot, before she turns and walks out the door, leaving Sloane to wonder how she knows.A series of scenes from Sloane’s perspective set during the Petals to the Metal arc. Includes the canon ending, but I extended it in order to allow for a happier conclusion. Major character death is tagged in only the most literal way. Still, any warning that may hold for the original canon would apply here as well!





	the only love i've ever known (the only soul i've ever saved)

_I ate the Lord, and choked._

-Theodore Roethke

 

* * *

 

Divinity, Sloane soon finds, is lonely. There becomes a desperate need to share the pulse of amber chugging sluggishly through her veins, the suffocating whip of chill wind in her lungs, the phantom rasp of splintering wood against her back teeth. This symbiosis with Gaia is exhilarating, but it threatens to burn her right up. Hurley could bear it, though, Sloane thinks. Hurley could bear anything. 

Sloane hates her for it. 

She hates Hurley for having found fulfillment when more and more pieces of Sloane are falling away every minute. She hates her for making Sloane question whether or not this encroaching godhood is the source of absolute power she has been chasing for longer than she’s known Hurley was alive.

Of course, she loves her for it, too.

 

—

 

The sash is weightless enough that sometimes Sloane forgets she’s wearing it, but in brief moments of lucidity she’s unable to fool herself into believing she’s anything more than a vessel. She imagines whatever essence it is that makes up ‘Sloane’ twisting like a waterspout down and out her heels, the thrall rushing in through her scalp to take its place. She can’t tell whether she’s in the driver’s seat anymore, whether the credit (the blame?) for the things her body does lies with her; the resulting relief and frustration twine together into a thick column in her throat that she chokes on every time she tries to explain to Hurley what is happening to her. In everything she’s done, Sloane has never been the spectator. It’s a hell of a time to start.

It was _easy_ to give in to the sash. Sloane _wanted_ to. Her entire life has been an inexorable rush toward the next greatest thrill—theft, racing, Hurley—and the promises the sash offered were intoxicating. Command over the elements, even in a city packed with dust and unrelenting metal, would elevate Sloane far above anything her world had ever known. The promise of equal partnership with Gaia was worth whatever she traded of herself in return. There was only one condition that Sloane insisted on: even as the sash compelled her toward the forests, Sloane clung to her anchor. As long as Hurley was in Goldcliff, Sloane would be too.

 

—

 

Hurley leaves after two racers die in what Sloane wishes she could call an accident. She thinks she may have meant it at the time. Before Hurley goes, they fight in a way they never have, not even when they first faced each other across the needle-thin divide of the law. Then, their scuffles were impassioned, flirtatious; now, there’s only the cold desperation of two playactors clinging to a half-forgotten script. Hurley grips Sloane’s collar tightly as she rises onto her tiptoes, and Sloane wonders how easy it would be for Hurley’s practiced hands to mete out retribution in kind.  She’s not sure whether she’d try to stop her if she tried. 

The tacky remains of drying tears on Hurley’s cheeks catch the light as she tugs Sloane down so she can press their foreheads together. She inhales. Exhales. Shudders.

 _You’re a good person_ , she says finally, her voice raspy and her breath hot, before she turns and walks out the door, leaving Sloane to wonder how she knows. 

 

—

 

Sloane has been greedy with every scrap of memory that Hurley shared with her, so there’s plenty to gorge herself on once Hurley is gone. There are quiet moments: the smell of cooked meats curling through the calm morning air before Hurley left for work, the crackle of a fire in front of an armchair where they sat curled together, the murmur of Hurley’s lips on the nape of Sloane’s neck as they drifted off to sleep. There are loud moments: the rich bellow of Hurley’s laughter as they rounded a dangerous corner of the racing track, the answering shriek that ripped through Sloane’s throat when crossing the finish line, the teasing shouts as another of their mock arguments escalated above the din of a crowded tavern. This melange of their lives together sustains her.

They still meet from time to time, even though Hurley refuses to race as a pair anymore and won’t step foot into their home. The thrall’s pressure wanes some in Hurley’s presence, a minute shift, like earth cracking in Sloane’s chest, allowing terror to seep through as she realizes she has lost control—had possibly never been in control in the first place. Sloane is being remade right before Hurley’s eyes and at her weakest she cries out for ruination. Hurley blanches but promises a solution.  

It’s the last time Sloane sees her alone.

 

—

 

These bumbling idiots before her are so close to death and don’t see it. The vines she summoned as a safeguard undulate against the windows of the tower in apology and Sloane feels an answering wave in her gut as she tries not to be sick. Scattered golden coins and shredded burlap sacks, crumpled paper documents and shards of iron, all souvenirs of a euphoric spree of destruction, lay interlaced with a dense carpet of tendrils across the floor. It’s obvious how the scene must appear. Still, she tries to warn them against the inevitable conclusion. 

They attempt to convince her to give up the sash, the poor fools. If they think they can control the power more adeptly than Sloane could then maybe they deserve it. Even as she considers this, Sloane rejects the possibility. Nobody could wield the elements as skillfully as she has. Nobody could withstand the constant onslaught of the thrall’s insidious persuasion, either. It’s proven as they engage her in combat, their blows barely landing. She hopes they’re impressed by her; after all, what is a god without disciples? When they begin to falter, though, her worry returns. Their fragility will soon reach a breaking point, and it was never her intention to have anyone caught in the crossfire. 

When Hurley comes bursting through the window in a halo of glass—and Sloane is acutely attuned to the sick irony of the sight of her Ram _flying_ to the rescue—she feels only relief, despite the danger of the situation. Hurley will make this right. 

Dematerializing might be the act of a coward, but Sloane sees no reason to be brave. She eats up the sight of Hurley, golden-bronze in the sunlight, before a wash of grey smoke occludes her vision and she is forced to drift away. It will have to be enough. 

 

—

 

The race is soon to begin. From her position on her wagon, Sloane casts a quick eye over to where Hurley stands with her cobbled-together crew. The rounded curves of her horns and the soft slope of her elongated nose are as familiar as her usual face, and Sloane’s hands tingle with the memory of tracing that very mask with her bare palms. There’s a particular kind of grace that has always saturated the air around Hurley, an intersection between confidence and elegance that is as addictive as it is enviable. 

Hurley returns the look. Sloane knows what she sees. The slick, sharp lines of the raven mask taper into an unapologetically cruel beak. The black feathers, once fluffed and glossy, now appear greasy and lank in the early glow of sunset. Anticipatory excitement has her trembling so much that she crosses her arms in a loose hold across her stomach, hoping to settle down so she can focus. Hurley’s face softens, and she nods at Sloane in acknowledgement before breaking her gaze. It’s the first time they’ve raced on the same track in a month. Naturally, Sloane will win. 

 

—

 

Sloane has lost. Sloane is lost.

 

—

 

there’s wind slicing past her face, stirred up by a frenzy of feathers and beaks and talons. her cheek stings and oh god is that blood? no matter, she lost, she lost, Gaia doesn’t _lose…_

 

 

_we gotta try and save her, right?_

 

 

she can’t move, she’s petrified, she’s out of control. her greying arms are held out in front of her as vines slither out their pores like tangles of snakes, and something is commanding them, commanding _her_ , but it’s _not_ her.

 

 

_i don’t know her like this._

 

 

laughter bubbles up her throat and leaves a sour taste behind as it spills out her mouth, a stranger’s expression of mirth.

 

 

_maybe I never really knew her._

 

 

she has never been as aware of her breath as she is now that she has run out of it.

 

 

  _can you blast around her?_

 

 

a familiar white light glimmers through the gaps of her botanical coffin and something inside her withers. she tries to pull back, tries to retract the thorns,

 

but the thrall is 

                         just 

                               too

                                   strong…

 

—

 

Hurley’s poisoned bloodstream outlines a blackened nest of veins under her skin. Sloane waits for a rush of pride at the sight of her handiwork, but when it returns only panic she knows the thrall has been broken. The flesh beneath her fingers is still warm and she can see the faint rise and fall of Hurley’s chest; this alone is all that binds Sloane together.

The pool of water underneath them starts to dampen the rough hem of her trousers and she hastens to scoop Hurley up closer to her chest, as though getting wet could possibly make anything worse. A charred scent lingers, the burnt air heavy and humid against her skin, and the distant sound of sirens provides a muted backdrop to the rattle of Hurley’s breathing. 

The men from the bank approach, their step cautious but knowing, and at their arrival Hurley finally speaks. That the first thing she does is crack a joke is simultaneously surprising and so _fucking_ typical that Sloane, despite herself, laughs. The movement jostles Hurley slightly and her shirt catches on the sash still draped around Sloane’s waist. The tool that would be their destruction is also their only shot at anything approaching salvation, she realizes, in an opportunity for ironic justice that Hurley would appreciate.

Before anything else, she makes sure to exact a promise from Hurley’s new friends. She is jealous that they were the sole recipients of so many of Hurley’s last hours, but the mulish look in the elf’s eyes as he rejects the notion that there’s nothing else to be done tells her all she needs to know about their character. They will do what they must so this never happens again. She’s sure of it.

For one last time, Sloane taps into the simmering well of power nestled at her core and is shocked as it smoothly acquiesces in response to the mastery she had lacked all along. An opaque shell of light encases them. Sloane’s toes root into the earth, and she watches Hurley’s skin take on the faint grain of wood. As their limbs stiffen and the acrid smell is replaced by a floral breeze, Sloane locks eyes with Hurley, who absolves her with a hitched-up smile. Redemption.

Rebirth.

 

* * *

 

**Coda**

Well. Maybe she read the elf wrong, Sloane thinks grimly as she and Hurley scramble in unison for the intangible cord of connection between themselves and the sash. Not even two minutes since their transformation and the buffoon tries put it on. Twice.

It’s not until the cleric is able to quell the thrall’s clamorous boasting and her rush of adrenaline is allowed to settle that Sloane realizes their imposed stasis is far different from what she imagined. Namely, she’s still conscious. With a body. Hurley is by her side, her form flickering around the edges but very much the Hurley that Sloane remembers from before the silverpoint.

Their surroundings are completely unfamiliar, nothing Sloane recognizes from when she was alive. From the look of things, Hurley is equally out of her depth as she gapes at the room they’ve found themselves in. Walls of beige- and umber-colored stone stretch a few yards into the distance, bathed in orange light and bracketing mottled marble flooring. In a windowed nook at the far end of the corridor sits a tall figure, broad through the shoulders and waist. A beautiful robe of shifting colors ripples around their frame, fabric dripping down to the floor next to their bare toes. Their face is obscured by warmly-hued shadow, and when they speak their voice echoes in a rich, comforting timbre. 

 _It’s good to see you, dear,_ they say, sounding amused. _I’ve been wondering when you would come to visit._  

Hurley widens her eyes at Sloane as her lips silently but emphatically form the words _What the fuck?_. Sloane shrugs in response, the movement slight so as not to attract attention. 

The figure clears its throat and points a long, brown finger at Sloane. _I’m talking to you. Do say hello._

“Um. Sort of seems like they’ve met you before, babe,” Hurley says under her breath, and Sloane hates the note of uncertainty threading through her voice. There is so much to rebuild between them.

She grasps Hurley’s hand. It’s inconceivable enough that they’re here, that fucking turning themselves into _a tree_ somehow wasn’t the end of the road; if she was in the mood to be optimistic, she would say fate had bigger plans, but Sloane doesn’t think they’re due for any more chances. If this is how they go out for real, hell if she’s spending these last moments with Hurley out of reach.

_You’re being rude, darling, and with all I want to offer you…_

“Pal, I literally have no idea who you are.” The statement comes out reedy but confident, which is the best Sloane supposes she can hope for, given the circumstances. 

The figure leans forward in a calculated move and their face is brought to light. A sun-bleached avian skull sits perched atop a head shaved nearly bald, the sharp beak curving down and bisecting a forehead creased by faint wrinkles. Two dark eyes framed by delicate, thin lashes glitter with humor as the figure’s mouth parts to speak again.

 _Don’t you?_   The Raven Queen asks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from delta rae's 'chasing twisters'
> 
> [ link to my tumblr here ](http://knownslowly.tumblr.com)
> 
> if you think this fic needs a tag or a warning that i haven't included, please let me know!


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